the wishes that we bury

our lives are but recurrences of our memories
and our memories are the future of thoughts
and events and touches that we refuse to let go.
that we refuse to bury under a heap of dirt.
And even if we do, we plant a sapling.

We say we know it's not gonna live..
but we water it every day..
and we are wary of the birds that pluck at it.
We are wary of strangers that might trample it...

And when on a sunny morning, a yellow flower blooms
we relive the pain of what was buried.

Comments

you should have been there..

I was dealing with depression and family responsibilities, yet trying to heal from trauma but you chose to leave me right then. Right when, I was gathering up courage , courage to finally owe up to a 7 year slow burn for you, waiting for you to finish your career goals when you left me. And not even a word before the final hour. Not even a warning , but a blow. I have loved you since the first day I met you.. since the first trip I took with you. Since the time we stared at a moonlit mountain together. You were a rock, my anchor. The day it all ended, I told my friend... I feel like a rudderless anchorless boat.. As I suffer through my personal troubles now, my failing health, I wish .. and I rage.. and I scream internally... YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE. And although you never promised anything, it seems weird now that it was all me and zero of you in there.

the beginning of all good conversations

It is the rain. The rain. The rain that is unbearably cold and unbearably reminds me of blue days. unbearable blue days, of exhaustion that comes with being happy. Happiness is an exhaustion. Sadness on the other hand is a slow intoxication. It is the rain. The cold rain that finally unburdens the exhaustion of happiness and trickles into the world, sadness, one drop at a time.one sadness at a time. sadness is accommodating. Come sit with me, tell me your sorrow. it is the rain, The rain. The rain that has this buzzing that calls forth the sadnesses it is the rain, the rain the slippery glasses that opens the inward gaze. in a dark room.

Postscript

I visited a forest and stood motionless under a canopy, An early spring's heap of dried leaves crumbling under my feet.. The only sound their breaking bones.. I looked up to see a leaf falling.. Almost like a sole movement .. Like a meteor rushing across a motionless sky.. My skin crawled with a memory Whether from my mind or my gut, I cannot tell. There were instances like this before With or without you. That whenever I had done this before, I had an assurance of the meaning of The motionlessness being you.. The meaning that a leaf twilled through An universe like a shooting star.. That both will return to dust.. But that all of this was for you.. Yet today the leaf seemed to fall infinitely And the star never completely burned.. Like there is motionless story that seeks no end. I have tried to set you free often. And myself from you. N You could. I still can't. Because in the depths of what caused things to come to a meaningful end, Despite no seeming reason.. Was you.

THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

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